These days I am off and on haunted
By some thoughts that keep me daunted,
And make me sad. Often do I wonder,
Will that drive us asunder,
If, one fine morning I wake up to see,
That my brain has depleted its memory!

That under oblivion my past lies buried,
I do not remember if I’m single or married,
To you or to anyone else. Those loved faces,
Of them my mind do not have even traces
Of remembrance. They all appear so queer!
Instead of love, they bring only fear.

Your visage that once occupied the lion’s share
Of my memory, now gets only a blank stare.
When you try to catch my ubiquitous attention
That wanders vaguely, beyond comprehension,
Our looks may connect but without a meaning,
Side by side we would sit, without any feeling.

Well if that be so, I guess I know
What should we do at such a show.
Dementia would have a special language
To some extent that could salvage
Our lost communication.
And give our memories a reincarnation.

Touch would be the language of Dementia,
This is not at all a crazy man’s utopia.
A touch would send signals to the mind
And vision to the eyes heretofore blind,
As soon as you would touch my forehead,
A flurry of activity the touch would spearhead.